The first time she noticed? Rachel couldn’t remember. A week ago, or ten. There, at the bottom of her short drive, a lone cigarette butt, filter baby-puke yellow. It was in an odd spot on a sliver of grass where fence-post met path. She’d tossed it in the bin and forgot about it until the next morning when there was another in the exact same spot.
Just the one.
It wasn’t until the fourth or fifth time that she began to take any notice. None of the neighbours on their small council cul-de-sac owned up to it though most smoked. Rachel stopped picking them up to see if they’d accumulate but there was only ever the one. Ever.
*
I have searched for you forever. Walked 10,000 worlds to find you. Swam Saturn’s seven seas; crawled the nine circles of Hell, until there you were—in a small garden at the bottom of a blue hill, sun haloing your hair like the wave crests of Alenethea in the 9th temporal zone.
I am forest fires raging; Ecuadorian roses blooming; lost love rejoining. I am here. Close your eyes.
Smell me.
*
When was the last time it had snowed? Rachel couldn’t remember. Flurries swished every winter but rarely stuck. So, she was surprised by three things that December morning—startling awake at 4am; pulling back the lined curtains to a world aglow from full moon on fresh snow; and a set of footprints directly under her window.
Under normal circumstances, Rachel would have been terrified but she was under the spell of melancholy moon and that strange waystation between dream and consciousness. The next thing she knew, she was out the front door examining the lonely footprints which led to her window then away again.
Rachel drew her house robe tight and followed the prints straight to the top of the estate and down the road to a small park where they ended in a copse of evergreens. The air was calm as the last stroke of midnight but still the branches rustled. Not much. Only as if a tiny bird had landed.
Fresh snow began to fall, drifting like memories through insomnia. She opened her mouth and put out her tongue. Tasted ashes.
*
King of many Kingdoms, you are my only treasure. Anything. Everything, to kiss the snowflake tears from your lashes; protect you from cold’s cruelty.
I am salty tears stinging; broken kisses burning; sympathy soothing. I am here. Close your eyes.
Taste me.
*
Rachel woke to the twins giggling. She threw open her bedroom window to give out to them only to find they’d built a snowman and dressed it in Richard’s old clothes.
“Look, mom,” they said, cheeks ruddy, eyes gleaming, “it’s Daddy.”
Rachel smiled and closed the window. She shook off her strange dream and shrugged on her house robe. How had it gotten wet?
Downstairs, she put porridge on for the twins. As she stirred in honey, something soft but deliberate brushed against her ankle. Startled, she looked down but there was nothing.
Time to lay traps again.
*
Many moons I’ve known you; through lightyears unforgotten. Melancholy bathes on your shores; let me swim in your beauty, sigh from your pores.
I am hearth fire crackling; desert sands baking; sunlight streaming. I am here. Close your eyes.
Feel me.
*
It was the twins’ last day of primary school and Rachel was trying to make the most of the quiet before the relentless roar of the summer holidays. At the kitchen table, she was drawing in charcoal from an old photo of Richard when something exploded.
Heart racing, eyes darting, she found the remnants of Richard’s heavy-crystal ashtray scattered on the sideboard, the pieces still humming.
“Richard?”
*
I have knocked upon your every door. Cried a century or more. For all this and more, I can only implore.
I am lonely gales howling; forest leaves falling; moonlit surf crashing. I am here. Close your eyes.
Hear me.
*
All Hallow’s Eve and embers still glowed in the fireplace when Rachel woke on the sofa. She put the mesh fireguard in front of the fire and went up to bed. It was freezing in the bedroom and her breath came out in foggy mist despite the thermostat reading 20 degrees. She checked on the twins but they were toasty and warm in their room.
Rachel pulled a linen box from under the bed. Blew away the slight film of dust and opened it to the smell of lavender paper and her perfume. She pulled out her honeymoon negligee, slipped it on and lay on the bed, uncovered. Closed her eyes…
*
“Rachel, I am here. See me.”
*
And in her dream, they open.
Author bio:
Barbara Lovric is an American expat living in Ireland. A previous Irish Writers' Centre Novel Fair winner, she’s had flash in Spelk, The Fiction Pool, The Incubator, Words for the Wild, and Cabinet of Heed. She was short-listed for the 2017 Over the Edge New Writer of the Year Award and long listed for the 2017 Bare Fiction Prize. She has upcoming pieces in Flash Fiction February and Anti-Heroin Chic.
Barbara was also selected for the Irish Writers' Centre 2017 XBorders project which explored the theme of Borders in literature and memoir. She is the founder and facilitator of a local writers' group and is a reader and Senior Editor for TSS Publishing, UK.
Photo by Andrew Pons on Unsplash